Gratified
by high.fiving.jesus
Summary: A selection of AU one-shots. Currently: The blasted child showed up on his doorstep and wouldn't leave without him and she wanted to go to Storybrooke-wherever the hell that is-and he just wants this all sorted. (But he also might maybe want to believe her, too)
1. Chapter 1

Killian Jones was beyond exhausted with this New York City, and so his temperament with her citizens had fallen short of favorable.

He was used to bustling ports and lewd taverns, so certainly the rush of the city was of no concern. In fact, he gave as good as he got, cutting through crowds with thrown elbows and steadfast shoulders and paid no mind to heels backing over his toes. He had gathered from his time back in Storybrooke that the seventeenth hour was the release of the working class, knew that he had chosen possibly the worst moment to continue his quest. But he also assumed that it increased his chances.

So far he had been proven wrong and that hope was quickly dwindling.

No, it was not the misconduct and insistence of bad form by nearly every person he had stalked by that really set his teeth on edge (though, honestly, an _excuse me_ would suffice; truly not a hard concept, manners), but it was the traffic and the looming buildings with glowing posters that shimmered and shifted to create new images and the honking. It was the vendors on the sides of the road trying to sell him something offensive-looking wrapped in bread—something disgustingly titled a _hot dog_ (which apparently contained not a bit of pup but consisted of the grizzly bits of swine (bits that he never would've considered edible, never mind a _delicacy_), the clerk rushed to assure him on pain of death). It was the images of hardly dressed women and grainy photos of people brawling and headlines such as LONE WOLF KILLED HIS WIFE AND UNBORNCHILD with promises of a worthwhile story all crowded into one place.

Buildings slithered up into the grey of the sky, like black thorns pushing out of the earth. Windows stacked upon windows, lit from within by _electricity_ and kept cool by way of _central air_ and _AC units_. Not a speck of sunlight and yet Killian could hardly resist stripping himself of his leather duster from the heat brought by the press of anxious bodies that all paused to cast wary, amused eyes upon him.

He had been in New York for just under a week now and he was beginning to truly feel it. That yearning for open waters, open sky. Nothing but the sounds of men tending to beloved wood beams, swabbing and swearing. He ached to ride the winds. He despaired for the control of being an officer. But...

But what's one week of suffering in the name of Emma Swan?

What is such a small sacrifice in the face of—he wouldn't lie to himself, all he had was a small thread of possibility, but he had tangled his fingers so tightly in the line of her smile that it mattered not.

Even if he never found her…

He had to try.

Killian held up the address Regina had given him and compared it to the street sign. _Finally_. It wasn't much but at least he need not scour the city for a damn street.

He had stopped to ask directions only once but when the boy, barely a man, had threatened to alert the law (he hadn't even motioned with his hook, let alone made any threatens, _seven hells_) he figured he would fare better on his own. (He was probably wrong, should've just attached his wooden hand and asked for some bloody directions, but every day he had awoken with one thought—_it'll be today_—and so it never seemed necessary).

(And in such an unfamiliar place, surrounded by such unfamiliar faces, with only the hollow burn left by his Swan… he couldn't bear to part with any piece of himself)

(_It'll be today_)

He pushed himself along the sidewalk and alternated his attention between the brick houses and the crinkled slip of paper. The pirate cut through the evening crowd. Watched the numbers tip up, two at a time. Bloody well said _excuse me_ when he knocked a lady. Looked at her address and then…

Seven hells.

* * *

><p>If True Love's Kiss didn't work, Hook would have a hell of a lot of damage control to perform or Emma would certainly never take the potion. And if a kiss didn't save his Swan then there would be no option for the boy. If the kiss didn't work…<p>

He had to believe in them. He had to believe that he loved her enough to make up for her doubts.

She… she had been encouraging his affections, hadn't she? He didn't imagine her pointed look, the touch of bittersweet affection, when…

She had said—it was not the first time that perfect word had crossed her lips. And if she meant what he thought she did, well then she had to love him, even a little bit, in some way.

In the year without her, he had tried not to dwell too much on what had transpired between them. He had to direct his full and prompt attention to finding the Jolly Roger if he was to even begin to hope he'd find her. And to maintain his standing as the most dastardly pirate to ever sail, he had to devote himself to reverting every effort he'd made to be a better man. There was scarcely a moment he could spare to remember her breathless in his arms, his hand pressing her's down into a swirl of silk sheets, _good_ slipping into the air between their lips…

Killian knocked soundly, her address crumpled in his fist.

_Gods above_, this was his last hope. How could he ever find her, if not in this moment? How would he even begin to pick up the pieces and carry on?

And then the door swung open and there she stood, sharp green eyes turned suspiciously on him, and while that hurt some part of him…

"Swan," he breathed. "At last."

His eyes moved to trail her body because _bloody hell_ he hadn't seen her in a year and he just couldn't help himself from drinking in every bit of her and—and—

And there, squirming in her arms, sat a babe with eyes like the sea and hair as dark as a raven. The girl suckled her socked foot and stared openly up at him.

Emma's brows furrowed. "Can I help you?"

_Seven hells._

* * *

><p><strong>Honestly, it's been ages since I've written anything at all ever and I've never written Captain Swan at all ever, so put those together and here's what you get: a cliché. But whatever.<strong>

**And really, FF is a test-run kinda place. Tell me where my writing is clunky. Tell me what I should draw out. Seriously, I want constructive criticism (make sure you read and understand that because while I've never gotten a flame before, I don't want to start now).**

**I adore this pairing so please feel free to send in prompts for similar drabbles.**

**And I don't own Once and blah, blah, blah.**


	2. Chapter 2

The child was a wee one, in possession of the shape of a suggested circle, with a round belly and rolls down her arms and legs (healthy, _gods_). He knew this because she donned nothing more than special, white knickers—reminiscent of diapers from the Enchanted Forest, but disposable, he assumed for convenience's sake—and little blue socks for her little pink feet (she was so _little_). Emma explained in the vaguest of terms that her cooling unit had broken and it was too hot for the child to wear anything more, and then told him she'd be back after packing her bags.

The lad had already left for school and wouldn't be back until the afternoon, an honest relief because at the moment Hook could hardly breathe, let alone focus on not exposing himself as a dastardly, _fictional_ villain.

Killian had just barely avoided attempting True Love's Kiss two days before, and that was only because the babe had thrown him. Of all the things that he had prepared his old, aching heart for, the lass was not one of them. In fact, she successfully blew all of his composure out of the water. He had looked up into the eyes of his Swan after staring at the lass too long (_too damn long_), saw the moment her motherly instinct had kicked in, and found himself immediately faced with a locked door.

After rounding up his wayward thoughts, he knocked and called softly into the apartment, "Swan, please, I mean no harm. I need only a moment."

Of course, she shouted for him to go away lest she call the cops (law enforcement, he had to remind himself) (gods, slang was so strange in this realm).

It took time, patience, some slight coaxing from Henry (_"Mom, what if he needs help?"_) and the compromise that she could keep the chain on the door.

She glared through the whole conversation, and called him mad perhaps seven times. Altogether, it had been a success. She had agreed to hear him out the next day just inside of Central Park—she wanted Henry safely tucked away in school and Hope (_seven hells_, this woman was a torment) hidden under the protection of a babysitter. And then, sitting on a park bench, he calmly and thoroughly explained the situation—the dark curse, how they met (_"Captain Hook? You're kidding me." "You swore to not interrupt, love."_), Neverland, and Pan's curse. He figured he'd wait to tell her about the new curse once she remembered.

When that didn't work (blasted skeptic, he loved her so much) he asked her too calmly who three-month-old Hope's father was. She got rather defensive, nearly walked away from him at that moment, until he stated rather boldly that she couldn't possibly know.

Needless to say, he had her. The promise of discovery (one necessary for Hope's health because what could the father have passed down) had her desperate enough to trust him. Hook had a sneaking suspicion that his coloring also had her curious and pliable to his convincing. So she took the potion.

(_"Hook."_)

They had decided to leave the next day.

* * *

><p>Hope lay on the floor, disgruntled after her mum had made her sit up. She seemed quite decided that either she would lounge the day away or she would crawl and there was no option in between. Her little lips puckered and fell open, her round fingers pulling off one of her socks, and she steadfastly held her little booty out to him as an offering.<p>

Killian glanced over the back of the couch, cautious of Swan seeing and reacting poorly. (But some part of him hoped—_knew_ that this was what she wanted, knew by the way she not-so-subtly excused herself from the room and asked him to keep his eye on the lass)

Hope waved her sock to gather his attention and kicked her little feet up by her head. Oh, bloody hell.

Killian detached his hook from its brace and set it on the side table, so terrified of hurting the precious babe, even by accident. He was so terrified that Swan would see him unfit, would finally see what a monster he was, see how jagged his edges were that even a gentle touch would bring harm. She'd see him as he was and take the child away. (_Gods_, he was already so in love with her).

He slid to the floor, took the sock from Hope's tight fist—such a fierce little lass, just like her mum—and carefully pulled it back onto her foot. She began to babble up at him curiously, and then latched on tightly to the pendants hung around his neck and waved then joyfully. And she had dark hair (_his_ dark hair) and blue eyes (_his_ blue eyes) and Swan's chin, Swan's nose, Swan's smile. Gods, he couldn't even breathe.

Killian had thought—he had hoped once—

All he ever wanted was a family. And every time that seemed like a possibility (his parents, Liam, Milah, Bae) it was torn away. He was left behind again. He was never good enough for people to stay—because_ villains don't get happy endings_.

And maybe one day he'd have Swan, and maybe one day Henry, and maybe (but probably not) he'd have Snow and Charming at least tolerate him. Maybe one day there would be people (plural, _gods_) that he loved who loved him in return.

But today he had Hope.

"Hello, little love," he whispered, his voice breaking as she moved to latch onto his finger. Her little hand wrapped around his heart and she whispered _mine_ and he was done for. There was nothing he wouldn't do for this precious babe, _his_ precious babe.

"Do you wanna hold her?"

Killian tore his gaze from the lass long enough to see Swan standing above him with her arms crossed and a gentle smile on her face. He couldn't speak, couldn't find the words to express just how much he wanted, so he nodded. He sat against the couch and she helped him gather the child up and showed him where to support her. Swan sat beside him, her fingers brushing over Hope's dark hair, and laid her head back.

"I couldn't figure out how she was possible," Emma confided, not looking at him. He, too, couldn't look away from Hope. "But I knew she was a second chance. When Henry was born—" She stilled beside him and pulled her hand into her lap.

"What, Swan?" he asked quietly, glancing over at her blank face.

She shrugged and said, "In my fake memories, when he was born we were starving. Not for long. But I remember holding him to my chest and wishing I had something to feed him so he'd stop crying. This time, we could do better." Killian ached for the two of them because, real or not, those early memories were still a cross for her to bear. He wished only for Emma to be happy. "Someone said to me that happy endings start with hope. I hope they were right."

She leaned over to press a kiss on top of Hope's head, the child's eyes blinking sleepily as her father cradled her to his chest.

"I would've come with you, if Regina had allowed it." He didn't know why he said it but it felt important that she know he hadn't meant to abandon her. He would never leave her side, if she were willing.

"You came back," she reminded him. She studied Hope for a long moment, sitting silently beside the man she was quietly falling in love with, trying not to imagine another child—a little boy, this time, with light curls. She could feel the weight of it all pressing down on her chest, could feel the panic start to crawl up her throat, and for a moment she was afraid.

And Killian could see it, as always, so he whispered rather arrogantly, "We make a handsome child, I must say."

She smirked and elbowed him in the side. He grinned at her, only too pleased to tease her if it batted back her walls.

They fell silent again, Killian shifting the now sleeping babe in his arms so that he could drop a sweet kiss on her little forehead, and settled down into the still moment. His eyes trailed the little lines of her brilliant face, latched on to the twitch of her little fingers, wondered at the size of her little feet. And looking at her, he knew he'd never need anything more than Swan in his bed and Hope in his arms and Henry at his side.

Emma looked up at him, watched that vicious pirate melt into a puddle before his daughter, and knew that there was no going back. Not ever.

"Yeah," she whispered, with a breathy little laugh, "we really do."

* * *

><p><strong>I don't think (I'm probably wrong) that I'll write any more one-shots set in this particular universe, but we'll see. I just really love daddy!killian so who knows.<strong>

**Peace out.**


	3. Chapter 3

At this point in his life, Killian Jones had been half-expecting the little girl with her dark hair and her light eyes, presenting herself haughtily on his doorstep and claiming to be his daughter.

Well. Not _her_ exactly. Maybe a petrified new mum—over the phone with the wails of a babe in the background, or at his apartment with the child asleep in her arms, violently whispering—_accusing_—him. Or, even better, still bloody _pregnant_ so he'd have just a bit of a heads up.

And perhaps _expecting_ was the wrong word. It was more that he wasn't surprised. He hadn't taken terribly many women (and nearly all of them had dark hair, it wouldn't be impossible to rope him into something that wasn't even his sodding business) but if he had the need to scratch an itch, there wasn't much his face couldn't get him.

So no, he wasn't really surprised by the concept of there maybe possibly _someday_ being a baby involved. It would be just his luck to skip over the getting-to-breathe-just-before-the-plunge bit and right into the is-that-a-boy-wow-dad-check-out-boys-who-knew-right bit.

She looked about eleven. That's when boys stop having cooties, isn't it?

She was a pretty little lass, with a stubborn jut to her chin and incredibly expressive eyebrows. (Okay, yeah, that was possibly his doing) She looked up at him with her hazel eyes and crossed arms, asked, "Are you Killian Jones?"

He nodded.

She nodded. Her arms unwound themselves and she pushed past him, leaving him gaping in the mouth of his apartment and at an utter _loss_ because what the hell, before sliding onto a bar stool and saying, "I'm Macey. I'm your daughter." She looked about for a moment, stopped pointedly at his jacket thrown haplessly on the back of his couch and raised her eyebrow, and then said, "Do you have any juice? I'm partial to orange."

Which is how they ended up sitting across from each other with locked gazes, her coat and scarf on his hat stand, and half-drunk glasses of water (just her luck he only bought apple juice; she scolded him thoroughly). He hadn't a bloody clue on what he was really supposed to do because he couldn't just kick her out to the mercies of Boston, now could he? And in that not-knowing, half-aware state, he had split his birthday cupcake right down the middle, strawberry filling spilling over his fingers, and slid her half on a napkin from Krispy Kreme's.

(_"Oh—happy birthday, Papa."_)

(_"Can I call you Papa?"_)

(He didn't know what to say)

Looking her over, he could see it—the resemblance. Had been seeing it all night. But he wasn't going to admit out loud that he was vulnerable to her persuasions. Not just yet. Because he just knew from looking at her bright eyes that she'd sniff out his doubt and convince him (and it would really take nothing at all because, _gods, _a family) and then his life would change, rather drastically—he could only imagine how her mum had felt so many years ago, wondered if she had been alone, wished he had _known_—so if he took a moment to breathe, no one could blame him.

Macey Swan—_Jones, she was a Jones now_—was particularly interested in cataloguing his mannerisms. How he kept scratching behind his ear, how he pressed his lips in a tight line and rose his eyebrows at her, how he was right-handed, how he drafted his words in his head like she liked to do. This was her dad—_finally_—and she craved every moment in which she could get to know him.

"So," the girl started, sliding out of her seat and holding her empty glass in both hands. Something about little fingerprints squeezed his heart tight in his chest. "You should probably pack, huh?"

"Oh?" Killian's eyebrows shot up, he tore his gaze from the cup in her hands, and his lips tilted with slight amusement. "And why is that?"

"So we can go home."

He leaned back, hesitating. If Killian hated anything, it was false hope. There was not a bit of him that wanted to be cruel, so he had to take care how he handled this. "And where, exactly, is home?"

"Storybrooke, Maine," she told him seriously, as if the name were not completely ridiculous. She raised her glass. "Where can I put this?"

"In the sink." She did as she was told. "And I'm not just hauling my ars—_butt_ to Maine. I don't even know if I'm really your father." And then, come to think of it, "You've no idea what sort of man I am. Your parents never taught you about strangers?"

She heaved a long-suffering sigh and dropped her elbow on the kitchen island so she could lay her head in her hand and look at him dramatically. Her other hand lifted and rested on the counter as she spoke. "Papa. Please. You're my dad. I did my research."

He matched her position and spoke in much the same tone. "Lass. Please. I'm going to need just a bit more than your word to go on. Who's your mum?"

"I can't tell you that."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I _can't_."

"Look, kid—"

"You don't know her!"

His expression dropped alongside his patience. "Perhaps you don't yet understand the intricacies of reproduction, but I assure you that if I am your father, then I _know_ your mum."

Macey groaned irritably and dropped her hands by her sides. "You can't _remember_ her!"

And that was that. It all seemed rather ridiculous to him, the story she was spinning, because Killian had a rather reliable memory and he prided himself on not getting caught looking like an arrogant prick who can't bother to at _least_ remember a face. So yeah, _maybe_ she was his, and _maybe_ her mum wasn't that memorable, but like hell was he going to get anywhere talking in circles with her. Suddenly he moved towards his landline and set his finger on the 9.

"Perhaps the cops can sort this, hmm?" he said with every bit of bravado he could muster. Involving the authorities wasn't his usual method for handling… well, _anything_, but the circumstances weren't normal and he was sure her parents were worried sick.

(He'd be worried sick)

"I'll tell them you kidnapped me."

Supposed-father studied supposed-daughter, looking for a lie. She seemed wholly prepared to do it. And it would be hard to explain why he had a child in his apartment—a child that was _probably_ _not_ his, but on the other hand _possibly_ _was_. Either way, it would be suspicious and entirely believable that he was some form of creepy. "You won't," he said with a spark of uncertainty.

"Try me."

And blast him if she didn't look every bit as serious as he was bluffing. He put the phone back in its cradle.

Killian ran his fingers through his hair and tried to think very rationally of a way to handle the most ridiculous moment of his life. He tried to set the thought in a glass case, to study it from every angle and plot out possible endings but—

But all he could see were her eyes and her dark hair and the sharp curves of her dark brows and the rounded apples of her cheeks. The slight smirk. The dimple in her chin. And all he could think was how empty his apartment was, with only just enough furniture to make it livable, but nothing like pictures or trinkets pulled from memory or baubles from people he's loved—nothing to make it _home_. Because there had never been… enough.

There had never been enough people, not beyond his mum buried in England and his dead brother lost at sea. Beyond the people who inevitably left—were _taken_ in the end. There had never been enough things to give him reason to buy a coffee table or an end table or a dresser or whatever the hell else other people had. There had never been enough time, or money, or damn self-worth—

_Dammit._

_If_ the girl were telling the truth, _if_ she were his daughter, then he owed it to her to at least see her safely home.

And he owed it to himself to find out the truth, to find out if he possibly had family.

And _maybe_ a small part of him even welcomed it.

He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and relented. "Fine. _Fine_. I assume you know how to get there?"

And Macey practically _glowed_.

**A/N: Yeah, I don't know. (completely irrelevant information below)**

**The set-up behind this drabble (one-shot? Ficlet?) is that Captain Hook and Princess Emma did the do in the EF before the Dark Curse was cast. Think Captain Duckling-type infatuation. She there had a baby and she was sent through the wardrobe and popped out just outside of Storybrooke. In this version of the curse, Emma is the deputy to Graham's sheriff. Awfully enough, Emma was the one to find little Macey, and Regina—fully aware of Macey's identity—opted to adopt the little squirt, just so that Emma couldn't. From there, Macey gets the Storybook from Snow and figures out all the subtle nuances of people's hidden identities. Of course, she doesn't reveal her knowledge to Queen Queen but still devotes time to Emma and eventually finding her father.**

**And I told you all of that because if I do a little follow-up drabble, I want the information available for reference. But I probably won't. So…**


End file.
